


Wring my neck, I won't feel a thing

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Aftercare, Choking, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Mikan Brand Angst Tm, Mild Sexual Content, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Neo World Program (Dangan Ronpa), Post-Series, Recovery, could stand alone tho, not much dw, sort of a follow up to "I'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck" ??, sort offff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 11:57:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: reverb, resound, and repeat.





	Wring my neck, I won't feel a thing

He trails kisses down her legs, humming softly, and she blushes. She doesn't push him down, make him bow to her, worship her. He just readily gets on his knees, a smiling tugging on his lips as if she was important. As if she wasn't horrible.

  
.

  
They're in a garden, and he braids her hair. She looks down at the cup in her hands, eyes pensive despite the soft moment. It's tea, a light blend with two cubes of sugar, a flower resting on the surface. She asks him what the song he was humming was, and he laughs lightly. "Do you want me to sing it for you?" He breathes, and she nods. His singing is hushed, but beautiful. She stares vacantly.

The flower in her tea sinks.

  
.

  
"Choke me," He says, unused to asking for what he wants, unused to wanting, and she hesitates, before wrapping her hands around him.

He looks confused, squirming a bit, but not nearly as much as he was used from before, from—the despair times, when she would hold him now and leave him gasping. He is not gasping now, his breathes heaving into his chest with relative ease.

Mikans heart Hammers in her chest, begging to break. She won't let it, but the ache of his confusion doesn't go away.

  
.

  
He is very peaceful, when he sleeps. It's odd. Even when he is relaxed when awake, there is something there, hiding behind his faces muscles. Here, however, there is nothing. He is open, when he sleeps. He's never been dishonest—he's never lied when it wasn't a necessity, the very thought leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, like eating a flowers steam. But he still hides, smiles and deception written in his very bones. Here, though. She sees it. It's as if they're walking in a dream.

He lets her touch him, when he's asleep, instead of gently pushing her away, insisting he wasn't worthy. As if she was. Her hands trace over the transition between his arm and metal, and he mumbles in his sleep. Her breath catching, purple eyes watching as his face evens out once more, before continuing to feel the metal under her hands.

She wonders if she should have treated his self cauterize arm, instead of helping sew a red nailed hand on his own. She knows it's to late to think that.

  
.

  
The neck is very sensitive. Choking from the front, restricting their breathing, is very dangerous. It can cause life time issues, to restrict ones breathe, even causing accidental death. It could snap, get crushed, like picking a flower. If done correctly, the person under you should be able to breath, your thumb on their pulse, hands pressing on the sides.

Mikan knows this. Mikan has known this since she was seven, her moms _special friend's_  hands holding her down, as she cried.

She knows this, because she searched it through her tears, trying to get the pain to stop, trying to understand what he did to her. Why she felt so gutted, why she felt so dead, throat sore from where his hands grasped.

She still had Komaeda gasping under her.

For some reason, there's no sickly thick veil of regret, only the hollow one of mourning. She doesn't know what she's mourning.

Maybe she's mourning herself, and all she's ever been. Maybe she's mourning what she hasn't been.

 

. 

 

She holds him afterwards, after lust and moans as they push their broken pieces into each other, hoping they'll make a whole. She cleans up any wounds, any fluids around him, and runs her hand through his impossible locks, making sure he is taken care of. She never did that before, either, it's so different yet familiar, and she wants to sob. She used to leave him rotting, blood and sweat and over bodily fluids, panting all over himself. She used to briskly walk away, pain pulling in her when she looked at his face, smiling and flushed, pathetic.

He makes a surprised noise when she hold him, now, mumbles about not being worthy. It curls around her neck like a noose.

Ironic.

  
.

  
He doesn't hold anything against her, when she tells him the dangers over their previous exploits. He says he'd be happy to die by her hand.

That's what hurts the most.

  
They were both such broken people, pretty to look at but to damaged to hold. Flowers, not quite up rooted right, instead plucked.

They were dead they moment they were picked by her.


End file.
